He sat on the hard polished wood of the bench. The bones of his hips dug into muscle painfully but he didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breath, even if he still did that.

He pushed those parts down. There wasn’t anytime now to reason with them. It was barely all he could do because he was also trying to push down the fear. And the hate. To do what he had to do tonight. To watch as the other dead things as they circled him. He dared not speak to them. They would kill him if he did. If he told them why he was here. How he was here. She had assured him of that and seeing them he believed. There was a part of him, a new part, that knew deep down that they wanted nothing more than to tear him to pieces.

So he sat perfectly still. Watching. Listening. And as she sat down beside him and ran her fingers through his hair he resisted the urge to shudder.

“So, my little stormcrow, what have you heard?”